My Dying Angel
by theconsultingdreamer
Summary: Post Reichenbach. John is falling apart since Sherlock's death. When he gives in, he hallucinates that Sherlock is there. But is it really just a hallucination? John's POV
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock. Even now the name gives me chills. Those eight letters are like a knife in my gut, twisting mercilessly. I jerk awake night after night, bathed in a cold sweat, his name still clinging to my lips. More than a few times I had to dash to the bathroom, the lingering images of Sherlock lying broken on the pavement too much for my stomach to handle.

The flat feels so empty without him, yet I can't bear to leave. It's the only piece of him I have left. I've been going through the motions, the last 6 months blurring into meaningless static. Sometimes I still call his name out when I come home, expecting to find him on the sofa, calling out, "Bored. BORED." But when no voice calls back to me, I remember. I sink to the floor and sob for the loss of my best friend, the one I couldn't save.

I've only visited his grave three days. It's too much, I can't bear it yet.

Molly, Lestrade, and even Mycroft call or come by to check on me. Make sure I'm still sane, still alive. The term 'ok' cannot be used to describe me. I'm not ok. I'll never be ok. A piece of me was brought to life when I met Sherlock Holmes, and that piece of me died when he threw himself off the building. In killing himself, he killed me too. In my nightmares, I can still see the blood on the pavement, still feel his wrist in my hand as his pulse fades away.

It was a particularly bad nightmare that set things into motion. I was standing behind Sherlock on the ledge, screaming for him. I watched him lean forward. In the dream, I lunged for him, my fingers brushing his coat, and he was gone.

I was on the ground again, watching. He seemed to fall forever, and the sickening crack of him hitting the pavement woke me up. I wasn't sure whether I actually screamed his name or not.

My stomach turned, and I clapped my hand over my mouth while stumbling to the bathroom. I dropped to my knees in front of the toilet, pain ripping through me. I couldn't keep going through this. It hurt too much. Pain seared through my stomach again, and I let out gasping sobs. This had to be it. I was dying. No one could live through this.;

Dimly, I heard the bathroom door open and a familiar voice yelling "John!" Someone dropped onto the floor beside me, checking my pulse. I tried to will them away, I was done. I didn't want to do this anymore.

"John, it's me, Sherlock. It's ok now." It was his voice. It sent mind blowing waves of pain through my mind and my body. I realized that it must be Sherlock, waiting for me on the other side. This quieted my mind, but the pain still tore through my body.

"We have to get you to a hospital," he said. "No…" I moaned quietly, not sure whoever it was heard me. I gagged, and the person with Sherlock's voice propped me up over the toilet, supporting me with one arm. Over the sound of my retching, I heard the person yelling into the phone. "Just get an ambulance! God, please, I think he's dying, I just found him-" The voice cracked.I've never heard Sherlock's voice crack. I moaned in pain. Sherlock pulled me against him. "John. John. It's ok. Hold on, ok? Stay with me. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, please stay."

I found the strength to open my eyes. The pale skin. The smell. The curly dark hair. Slowly, I looked up into the eyes of the worlds only consulting detective. He slapped me. "God damn it! I'm real! I'm alive! John, stay with me!"

My already hard breathing sped up. Sherlock…alive?I couldn't….I…I was falling…

The first thing I saw when I woke up was Sherlock Holmes. He was sitting in a chair beside my hospital bed, stroking my hand. He looked up at me, pain evident in his eyes. "John, I'm sorry…"

"It wasn't a dream." He smirked. "Hardly." I stuttered, "But…you…"

"Shh. John. There's time for explanations later. Rest now."

"Don't leave. Stay," I pleaded with him. He gently touched my face, leaning his head against my shoulder. "I will. I won't ever leave again."


	2. Chapter 2

**Due to the large number of positive reviews and people asking me to continue, I'm going to write more **

**I do not own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters. Sadly.**

I woke up again to see Sherlock standing beside my bed, pacing. I knew staying in a hospital room all day couldn't be pleasant for him. "You can leave, you know. I'll be fine." It hurt me to say that, but unless he went jumping off another building, I probably would be fine. I needed him sane, and this hospital room wasn't helping.

"I'm not leaving you."

He had explain everything to me not long after I woke up. Moriarity's snipers, how he had to jump to save us. I tried not to cry, but I didn't succeed. "You…you almost died to save us."

He had rolled his eyes and sighed. "I was aware of what was going to happen. It was extremely likely that he was going to trap me into killing myself. Luckily, it was a way I could get around." He spent over an hour explaining the brace he wore to protect his spine, the drugs he had taken to slow down his heart. It was so out of character for him to spend so long explaining anything without making comments about my average intelligence, but it was easy to tell he felt terrible for what he had done to me, and to everyone who cared about him.

I never understood why he called himself a highly functioning sociopath. He wasn't, by any means, any form of sociopath, and this proved it. He had jumped off a building to save the people he cared most about. Sociopath, my arse.

I was discharged after a day in the hospital, with special diet instructions, a large amount of vitamins, and a course of antibiotics. I had stopped taking care of myself when I lost my best friend, and I had stopped eating shortly after. The thought of food had made me sick, so my solution was to avoid it. Of course, this affected my body, which had started to shut down by the night Sherlock came back. The lack of nutrition plus large amounts of alcohol nearly killed me. A few more hours and Sherlock would've come home to a dead man.

Mycroft had sent his limo to bring us to the flat, which made both of us roll our eyes, but I didn't protest. I still felt incredibly weak.

I noticed the bathroom and my room had been cleaned up in my absence. My sheets had been changed, my bed made, my mounds of dirty laundry washed. I wasn't sure who had come in and done it, but my bets were on Mrs. Hudson or someone Mycroft had sent. Either way, I wasn't protesting. I slid between the sheets of my bed and drifted off to sleep.

Sherlock woke me up a few hours later with some tea and my vitamins. "You should eat."

I snorted. Sherlock, telling me to eat? He looked skinnier than last time I had seen him. I guess without me there to make him eat, no one had been reminding him. He looked like he could use some of my vitamins.

Sherlock glared at me. "I need you feeling better, John."

"Then maybe you shouldn't have killed yourself." Immediately I regretted what I had said. Hurt flashed in his eyes for a split second, almost immediately masked by his usual cold stare. "Come on. Food."

"I don't need you to take care of me, Sherlock." Anger was pulsing inside me. Yeah, I was glad he was back, but to come back in after six months of being dead, and completely take over my life, that was too much. I didn't need a nanny.

"Apparently, you do." He snapped, his tone biting.

"No, I need my best friend to not commit suicide. Is that too much to ask?"

Anger flashed in his blue eyes. "I didn't commit suicide. I'm right here, alive as can be."

"But you weren't. You were gone for six months, and yes, you were alive. No, I was not privy to this knowledge. I don't think you understand just how much you hurt me. I watched you die! I felt your pulse fade away from me!" He opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off. "No, don't you dare tell me it wasn't real. Don't you dare tell me it was the drugs, it was fake. I know that. But at the time, it wasn't fake, and I was watching the one person I care about most in this world slip away from me, and I don't think you know how much that hurt!"

"Believe me, John, I understand." His voice had gone quiet. He wasn't looking at me.

"No, I don't think you do." I retorted coldly. I snatched my coat from the back of my bedroom door and pushed past him. He grabbed at my sleeve. "Where in the hell do you think you're going?"

"Anywhere but here. I need to think." I got to the door and stopped. "You better be here when I get back."

I didn't turn around, but I could hear the pain in his voice. "I told you John, I'm never leaving again. I can't."

"Good." And with that, I flung open the door and stormed down the steps.

**Please give me your opinions! **


	3. Chapter 3

Once out of the flat, I realized I had nowhere really to go. It was cold and the sky was threatening rain, but no way in hell did I want to go back into that flat. Not yet, anyway.

I was still exhausted, and by now I was starving too. Thank god I had thought to grab my phone. I scrolled through my contacts until I found someone I could talk to. "Hello, Sarah? Are you home right now?"

Two hours later, I was still sitting on Sarah's couch, a third cup of tea in my hands. She had made us dinner, and we had sat and talked. I poured my soul to her about everything that was weighing on my mind. Sherlock's death, his return, my being in the hospital, everything. I will admit, I did cry a little bit at one point. She was really kind and just let me ramble on until I had nothing left to say. Now we were sitting there, leaning against each other and enjoying the comfortable silence. I took a sip of my tea. "I really should be getting back soon."

"I understand."

She sat up and smiled at me. "Come see me again soon?"

"Of course." I gave her a kiss on the cheek and thanked her for the food before I headed back down to the street to catch a taxi.

Sherlock was playing the violin when I walked back into the flat. He didn't look up at me when I walked in, but I noticed a plate of food sitting on the warmer by the sink. I didn't say anything, just took the food and the pills next to it, and sat at the table. He continued to play while I ate what I could. It was a slow and soothing tone, and I wondered to myself whether he did it on purpose or not, so not to agitate me. Either way, I was thankful for it. Plus, it was a nice piece, one I had heard him play a couple times before. It really was nice.

He stopped playing while I was washing up my dish. Without a word, he walked over to me and drew me into a hug. It was the most un-Sherlock-like thing he had done yet. It was awkward and short, and yet sweet. He drew back and nodded at me. "How are you feeling?"

The question caught me off guard. "Um, fine, thanks."

He looked me over, deciding whether or not I was lying. Apparently I passed his test, because he stood up and walked back to his violin, picked it up, and starting playing again as if he had never stopped.

I decided to have a shower. I hadn't had a proper one since before the hospital, and while they had cleaned me up, I still felt a bit grimy. A hot shower would feel wonderful.

I stayed in the shower longer than usual, as the hot water felt better than I had anticipated. The mirror was completely steamed up by the time I stepped out and toweled off.

Sherlock was hovering outside the bathroom. He didn't say anything when I walked out, but nodded at me again and stalked off. I heard the violin start up again.

By now it was getting late. I was exhausted still, despite it only being half past nine. There was nothing better to do except go to sleep, and anyways I needed my rest.

Sleep wouldn't come for hours. I stared at the ceiling, willing my eyes to close and my brain to quiet. The sounds of the city outside seemed to twice as loud as usual, every sound worming its way into my brain and blaring over and over. The lights of passing cars washed over my ceiling, on their way to somewhere.

I don't know what time it was when I finally slipped into dreamland, but I was endlessly glad when sleep pulled me under.


End file.
